


terms of endearment

by marrowbones



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Paris arc spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21943309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marrowbones/pseuds/marrowbones
Summary: The problem is that, with this lot, it is vastly too easy to forget who they are to each other. You make an ill-advised channel crossing for personal and religious reasons with two well-meaning idiots who have signed on to help you, and suddenly they start to seem much more like friends than strictly employees.+Zolf is the kind of person who absentmindedly uses pet names with his friends. With his charisma score, he's lucky if he doesn't make it weird.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Zolf Smith, Sasha Racket & Zolf Smith, Zolf Smith & Sir Bertrand "Bertie" McGuffingham
Comments: 5
Kudos: 118





	terms of endearment

The problem is that, with this lot, it is vastly too easy to forget who they are to each other. As in, more often than not, it is vastly too easy for Zolf to forget he is their boss. You make an ill-advised channel crossing for personal and religious reasons with two well-meaning idiots who have signed on to help you, and suddenly they start to seem much more like _friends_ than strictly _employees_.

So it just slips out when Sasha offers him a carrot on the way to Calais, probably because he’s been listening to Doris too much, who has turned from chatting with them to attempting to speak terrible French with the cart driver. 

Sasha dangles a carrot by the leafy end, and Zolf says, “Cheers, darlin’,” as he reaches for it. 

Sasha goes still and doesn’t let go of the carrot, even pausing in chewing her own. They blink at each other. Sasha narrows her eyes. 

“You making fun of me?” she says. 

Zolf waits several awkward beats too long before he says, “No. ‘Course not.” 

Sasha doesn’t look convinced. She resumes chewing on her carrot. Lets go of his.

After a while longer, she says, “Aren’t there some kind of rules about that?” Her eyebrows are furrowed, more thoughtful than angry. “You being our boss and all?” 

Zolf blinks again, and then resists the urge to drag a hand over his face. 

“Yeah, probably,” he mutters, chastened, and is trying to muster an apology that is also a promise to never call her that again (and which won’t make him put his foot in it even _further_ , good job, Zolf), when Sasha continues as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I don’t mind it,” she says. “‘S kinda nice, actually. My—Brock used to call me nicknames. _Poppet_ and _darling_ and silly things like that, and some others...he’d call me a little eel whenever I did something he was proud of.” The memory draws her out of her wary slouch, and a smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. Zolf can imagine the kinds of things a relative of Sasha’s would be proud of her for. _Eel_ about covers it. 

“It’s a reflex thing,” Zolf says. “Sorry about that.”

Sasha startles from her reverie and her face tries to do several emotions at once. “Oh, yeah, no,” she stammers, “it’s probably better you don’t—you don’t, uh, call me any of those, because like. It’d be a bit weird, right, seeing as we have a professional relationship.” The last bit sounds like she’s reciting catechism, like she learned the words somewhere else and is repeating what she’s been told. She looks a bit cross with herself when she finishes. 

But, after another stretch of silence filled by Doris prattling happily to the cart driver, Sasha says almost approvingly, to no one in particular, “I’ve had plenty of bosses call me worse.” And she hands him another carrot.

Zolf takes it as a blessing in case it ever happens again. 

-

Bertie is insufferable on the train to Paris. Not only does he not stop extolling his own virtues for having won the bet, but he also, despite all Hamid’s placating charm, puts the fear of the gods into the waitstaff when he can’t figure out how to make the automated service system give him tea. Eventually, a harassed waiter brings along a steaming pot of earl gray and a tiered tray of patisseries, and Bertie is temporarily mollified, although oblivious to the waiter’s frigid attitude.

Of course, he also feeds Brutor his own croissant, which only succeeds at making a mess, no matter how dainty the dog’s manners are these days. _People_ can hardly eat croissants without getting crumbs everywhere, why should a dog be any different? 

So Zolf is not in a particularly charitable mood when Bertie begins sweeping flakes of pastry off the napkins tucked into his and Brutor’s collars, cooing to the dog as bits of croissant pepper Zolf’s sleeve. He rolls his eyes. 

“Get you another, dear?” he says, so sharp with irony that Sasha looks up. 

The sarcasm goes completely unremarked by Bertie, who accepts and then looks exceedingly miffed when Zolf takes a deliberate bite out of the remaining croissant and sticks his nose back in his newspaper instead of passing the croissant to Bertie. 

Through a grumbled stream of put-out sighs and well-I-nevers that will only subside a good forty-five minutes later, Zolf risks a glance up at the others across from him. Sasha is hiding a smile in her jacket collar. Hamid’s effort is even more perfunctory, a few fingers that barely shield his mouth as he grins out the window. 

-

Sasha sets off down one tunnel with the flashlight, and Zolf eases Hamid down against the wall before lowering himself as carefully as he can without jarring his leg. Hamid’s breathing is a harsh scrape in the stone passage, shallow breaths that are in danger of turning into full-on hyperventilation if he doesn’t calm down quick. 

The cave-in that has cut off their return to the catacombs looms off to his right, so at least they'll be buried alive in the most fitting place for it.

Zolf is—well, truth be told, Zolf has always been rubbish in situations like this. Hamid needs to keep warm and be distracted, and all Zolf can think is, _Things are pretty well fucked now, innit_. Doesn’t help that Sasha weaves in and out at intervals to reassure them with false confidence that everything’s fine, which is a totally normal thing to say when things are, in fact, not fine. 

The prestidigitation trick doesn’t go over as well as hoped. Hamid’s good hand trembles in the casting, fluttering the handkerchief that appears like a hurt moth in the damp air. And Hamid can’t even see it, just stares into blackness for what seems an eternity before, with robotic motions, he begins to dab ineffectually at his face.

Zolf himself is starting to notice panic setting in through the dull agony of his leg. Elevated heartbeat, that tightness in his chest. Sasha looked a bit manic on her last pass, and he could have sworn he heard the echo of some creature screeching not long ago. They’ll be no good to anyone if they both lose it, so Zolf does the first thing he can think of. He takes the handkerchief from Hamid’s hand, and then he takes Hamid’s hand. 

“Alright now, sweetheart,” he says, soft as he can, just to have something to say. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit.” And he starts to wipe at the mess on Hamid’s face, tears and eyeliner and blood and mud coming away with each stroke. Hamid lets him; his hand is still trembling in Zolf's, no reaction to the hankie beyond the docile flitting of his lashes when Zolf passes it over his eyes and nose. 

“Did you know,” Hamid starts, in a voice that seems to come from some remote distance, “that the Meritocrats built a network for fresh water that runs parallel to the sewers? Paris wasn’t very clean before...before. There was a lot of, of cholera about. That’s why there’s so much calcium in the water, you know. The reservoirs are old limestone quarries.” 

“I...did not know that.” Zolf pauses. Squeezes Hamid’s fingers. “Wanna tell me more about it?”

They sit there, hand in hand in the dark, and try to fill the silence.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason the idea that Zolf is the kind of person to absentmindedly call people pet names grabbed me during the catacombs episodes and just would not let me rest until I wrote it, so this has been some very niche content for you all. Hopefully it adds a little bit of sweetness to your day :)
> 
> Reposted from [tumblr.](https://marrowbones.tumblr.com/post/189801481364/terms-of-endearment)


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